


Nova

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, Emotional, M/M, Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the guitar Lars bought James. SKOM era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nova

**Author's Note:**

> This took me like a week to write. I listened to this here --http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifp_SVrlurY -- and it consumed my life. So I wanted to make a fic inspired by "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." The guitar in question for this story is here: http://www.experiencedmusicalinstruments.com/images/nash/overburst1.jpg

The guitar rested in the back corner of the shop, stringless and dirty. Small dents decorated its black body finish and the remnants of its original sunburst coat sported deep scratch marks and paint chips. Rust crusted the silver pegs like old mildew all the way to the top of the fretboard. The loose knobs, pedal, pickguard and pickups rattled around as he wrapped his hand around the neck and gently lifted it up. Time didn't treat this guitar well. The old girl probably had a few months left in her at best. In the hands of the right repairer, she might live again, but only a skilled musician could really make her sing. 

Lars bought it and sent it to the best repairer in Copenhagen the same day. It was a perfect gift for James. 

When he picked the guitar up a couple days later from the repairer, he learned about her history. "Fender had a surplus of sunburst finished Strats back then in 1963. So instead of stripping them of their color, they painted black over them. That's why you can see the sunburst color there on the right forearm area. That's the original color."

The polished, restrung guitar looked half-finished. "Can you fix the paint chips?" Lars pointed to the area closest to output jack, where scratches and marks cluttered around. 

"No. For one, I'm not a painter. I just gave the old girl some new pickups, tightened her in the areas she needed, restrung her, whole bit. Besides, this is an authentic 1963 Stratocaster with black over sunburst finish. I don't want the guitar devalued."

"I don't care about that. I want it to look new."

"Your problem."

Lars searched around for a painter but he came across the same problem over and over. No one wanted to touch it. They admired the ruined surface like the most beautiful marble altar, prayed on its scratched surface and pushed it back into his hands. He threw money at them, gave them triple their prices. Still they refused. 

The day before he returned back to the States, Lars settled on no new coat. From what Lars remembers of James's first guitar still resting in the garage, its neck broken and its white V-body battered with old drunken sharpie scribbles and tour-related dents, James would probably appreciate the weathered look. The thrilled, boyish smile beaming on James's face when he opened the case hours later on the foot of their bed confirmed everything Lars thought. 

James didn't name his guitars. He didn't like the tradition. Lars wasn't good at names himself, but it upset him that she had no identity. After a week speculating, he named her Nova. The body's design reminded him of a supernova exploding in space, its bursting fire of energy and light traveling across the empty darkness for thousands of years until its death finally reached one pale blue dot sitting alone in an endless circle. He never told James. He figured James would laugh. 

For years, Lars woke up to her song in the morning. He'd stumble to the playroom half-asleep dressed in James's robe, shoulders sagged and head heavy with fatigue. But the beautiful music compelled him to march on. 

All the different looks and physiques of James crossed his vision when he watched James play, from the day he gave the guitar in 1993 to now 2001. He leaned against the doorframe like old times, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the most intoxicating sight in the world: James and Nova in a room full of instruments, blue eyes closed and mouth parted open in concentration, the sounds, the music, those hands sweeping up and down the fretboard and the strings. 

Lars recognized the tune, Thin Lizzy, but not the title. James favored melody with Nova the best, either in country or classic rock, like Led Zeppelin or Johnny Cash. Lars didn't know if it was because of Nova's tone, her pickups or James himself, but the guitar in James's hands made those songs better than the originals.

His chest ached when James bent Nova's strings and tilted his neck back, gasping like he's pained, like he's hurting. His stomach curled like his toes as James soloed, all emotion, all feeling. His head rested on the doorframe for balance as his eyes blinked away tears. Only James could do this to him.

The song stopped. Lars opened his eyes to an empty playroom. Nova rested in the guitar stand, James's fingerprints still fresh on the chipped body. He stood there confused, then the cold rush of remembrance woke him up, as sharp and painful as James's fists that night a year ago. 

Lars turned away from the room.

"He told me he needs time away from us, wants to figure out things on his own," Kirk explained in the next therapy meeting. He kept his head down and away from Lars. "He said rehab opened him up to a lot of things that he needs to fix before he comes back. Once he does that, then well, he'll be okay. Until then… all we can do is wait."

Lars sat in his chair, arms and legs crossed, eyes red-rimmed. Bob sat besides him staring out into nothing, idly rubbing his thumb on his chin. 

"Was there anything else?" Phil asked.

"Well, he said that he misses us and that he loves us—"

Lars snorted. "Loves us."

Kirk licked his lips. "And he p-promises to come back."

"We're just in limbo." Lars sighed. "And the longer James decides to stay away, the longer we're just stuck here waiting, completely left to our own devices. I mean… if James didn't come back to Metallica, I'm not sure it would surprise me."

Hours later, Lars sat in the hotel room alone with Phil, tears in his puffy red eyes, cheeks wet and skin pale. He stared up at the white ceiling and listened to Phil's words. 

"You need to stop this passive-aggressiveness," Phil advised. "All of this anger and hostility is your defense mechanism of fighting off the fear of James not coming back not just to Metallica, but to you. The more you attack this fear, the more you're going to be hurt."

"I hate him. He left all of us. It's not just me. Bob doesn't know what he did wrong, Kirk's caught in the middle and I'm stuck here all fucking confused wondering what I could've done—"

"You can't think like that."

Lars's fists shook on the shoulders of the chair. "I can't think about anything else but the twenty-fucking-years he spat into my face not returning to me after rehab—not even talking to me for six months but to _Kirk_ of all fucking people." 

"And is that Kirk's fault?"

"Of course not. It's his."

"Then let him learn from his mistakes. You need to be patient. This is a huge step in his life he's taking. I don't think he would abandon the band or you. You heard what Kirk said. He promised to come back. You said yourself he doesn't break his promises with people. Take solace in that."

"He promised to be by my side. Look how that turned out."

"Has he truly left it?"

Lars scraped his dry palms over his wet face. "I've been patient for twenty years, Phil. I don't think I have any left."

"If you still love him, then you do." Phil rested a hand on Lars's knee and squeezed. "He's afraid, Lars. Give him time."

Month after month disappeared from the magnet calendar on the kitchen fridge, ripped off, rolled up and discarded. Habit forced Lars to cross off every day. He occupied himself with all his interests outside of music and it helped him get through the day. The nights still proved unkind to him. 

His dreams followed him, relentless and haunting. Every time Lars tried to move on, James was there. Those hands rested on him like they did on Nova's strings, slid up his torso like Nova's body. Those arms encircled him and held him, cradled his head, grasped his neck, embraced his back. Those lips murmured and sung honeyed words, leaving Lars a quivering mess of emotion. But then he'd wake up to a calendar filled with red marks counting down the days, an empty side of the bed, a vacant playroom, and he'd remember then James left him and wasn't coming back. 

Some nights the unbearable dreams left him a sweating panicked messed too unstable to rest again. He paced the house for hours wearing James's robe, drinking into a stupor, smoking a few cigarettes in a silence loved and hated. With silence Lars found comfort from his musical dreams as well as unwanted reality to his situation. No music. No James. 

Nova became his comfort on those nights. He slipped into the playroom filled with ghosts of everything James, sat on the carpet floor and plucked Nova's strings with his fingers, hoping in vain to make her sing like James could. Nova played weak notes, as if sick and lonesome without her true master. 

Lars found a kindred spirit in her. He didn't have the talent to play Nova, but he could show her off, give her needed attention. At Kirk's Halloween party, everyone fawned over her. His father Torben on Thanksgiving played Nova like a sitar and his giggling little cousins at Christmas plucked and petted Nova's strings. He felt centered as he looked at Nova in their hands, in his own. Nova still had her purpose, her life, even without James there. Lars gave her back what James took away.

"He's coming back," Kirk informed one morning in a therapy session, months later.

Bob shot up from the couch. "Are you serious? When?"

"Next Monday." Kirk flung his arms around Bob, laughing and grinning. "He's finally coming back!"

Lars sat there in his chair, hands shaking in his lap, as he watched Phil, Bob and Kirk hug and talk and laugh about James's return, the cameras capturing everything. They soon included him, chatting away, excited and jovial. He faked his way through it all. 

He suffered from restless nights leading up to the return, haunted by horrible dreams reliving good memories. Sleeping pills proved useless. The anxiety left him staying up with Nova in his arms, watching the sunset, thinking of James and what could happen. 

The day of, Lars arrived late to HQ looking like shit, his hair disarrayed, black circles around his eyes. He slapped on whatever clothes he could find in the closet: extra large orange t-shirt, baggy blue track pants, black flip-flops. Loud voices came from the kitchen as he entered. Part of him wanted to avoid James for a few minutes longer; the other part told him to go for it. He had no choice when he heard James's booming laugh. 

His eyes rested on James like he's never seen him before. The black-rimmed glasses fit the appearance of a mathematician, not James. But the baby blue striped shirt, off-blue jeans and black boots were so utterly James.

The old ache rose up in Lars's chest as he heard his voice, listened to it talk with Bob, joked with Kirk, laughed with Phil, Zach, Toby, the entire HQ crew. He missed that voice the most. 

"Hey, Lars showed up," someone announced. 

"About time," Kirk teased. He pulled Lars to his side, an arm around his shoulders. "He's been asking for you," he hissed into Lars's ear. "Don't freak out."

Kirk shoved him forward, his arm disappearing. Lars gazed up at James into blue eyes that never looked clearer in all the years he knew him and it made Lars ache again to the point of pain. 

"Hey," James whispered.

His voice caught in his throat, strangled tight by his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. Lars swallowed hard, his breath quickening. 

"Hi… welcome back."

His mind screamed no as he slid his arms around James's waist, pressed his cheek to James's chest and shut his eyes. It felt like coming home. James's smell, his heartbeat, his warmth and his voice – that fucking voice – and those hands, those hands pressing now against his back, his shoulders—

James shoved him back hard. "Thanks."

Lars froze in his spot. His arms slipped away as James left him, walking to the kitchen, talking to another person. They fell against his side like nothing, like he's nothing. 

Kirk shook his shoulder. "See? It's a start. You two will be fine."

Lars turned to Kirk but he already vanished, left his side for the food. All eyes stayed on James as he stood in the corner of the room, away from the camera lenses and the people. To everyone else, it was a fleeting moment, a normal hug, regular James and regular Lars. 

His hands turned into fists. 

The rage infiltrated the music. Weeks on end he beat the shit out of his drums, all of his anger, frustration, hurt and anguish ending up in every song. The tension between him and James fueled the fire inside. He tried so hard, waited so long, only to have James keep pushing him away, over and over again. James hugged Kirk and Bob and gave him short fleeting ones, always shoving him away when he tried to make them longer. James ordered no making music when he's not there. James designated work to a time slot of 12 to 4. James was back to being the Dictator again, installing Hetfield law to its full power.

Months later, Lars had enough. "I think you're so fucking self-absorbed. And what makes is worse is that you always talk about… you always talk about me, and you use the words 'control' and 'manipulation' a lot. I think you control on purpose and I think you control inadvertently. I think you control by the rules you always set. I think you control by how you always judge people. I think you control by your absence. I think you… you— you control all of this even when you're not here." 

"I need the control." James fists thrummed on the kitchen table. "And you hate that I need it."

Lars paced around the table, shaking his head, the two cameramen following his every move. "There we fucking go. Always assuming the worst out of me. Do you really think I need control of the schedule that much? That I can't possibly let James Hetfield have a life outside of the band?"

"Yes."

Lars laughed and threw his hands up in the air. 

Kirk switched his attention between James and Lars, his face the perfect picture of a worried divorced child in the middle of his parents fighting. Phil watched on, observant and calm. Bob pressed his forehead into his clasped hands, eyes downcast to the table. 

Lars planted his hands on his hips. "I don't understand who you are anymore. I don't understand this shit you throw at me. I realize now that I barely knew you before. I mean, all these rules and shit. Fuck." He met James's blue-eyed glare. "I get that you need to leave at four. I respect it. But don't tell me I can't sit down and listen to something with Bob at 4:15 if I want to. What the fuck is that? I mean, I…" He sighed. "I don't want to end up like Jason. Okay? I don't want to be pushed away. I don't want it to happen twice."

Horrified faces gawked at Lars, terrified at his analogy, except for James. His face stayed impassive, nonchalant, uncaring. 

"Your prerogative."

All the months of pent up rage, frustration, anger and hurt erupted when Lars stomped up into James's face and yelled on top his lungs.

"FUUUCK!"

Kirk and Bob yelled after him as he stormed out of HQ. He left too quick, drove too fast for them to catch up and stop him. The cell phone rung over and over as he sped through red lights, stop signs, cut off people and ignored signals. 

His mind and body worked independently of each other. Physically he parked the car in his driveway, walked up the steps of his large home and stormed inside, trashing things in his wake. Mentally he thought of him, of James, those ugly blue eyes judging him like a peon, an idiot, a piece of shit dirty bug that deserved to be squashed and stomped underneath James's boot until he flatted into a bloody skid mark easily wiped away with a rag cloth. Like he was nothing. Like he was shit. 

In the fridge two unopened bottles of red wine stood there. Lars drained one of them completely before he strangled the neck of the other and went to business cleaning house. 

Glass littered the floor, pictures ripped up, torn apart, crumpled and thrown away. James's leftover clothes overflowed the trash bin, trinkets twenty years old filling up the base of the bottom. He poured all of James's cologne, mouthwash, aftershave, shampoo and conditioner down the sink, disposed James's favorite DVDs and vinyls into a Hefty bag for Goodwill, threw his tools all over the garage, denting the walls. 

One room remained untouched from his cleaning. Lars stumbled inside the playroom, draining the last bottle. He dumped it behind him as he dragged his feet, smirking at the sight of pretty Nova resting in her stand, next to James's beloved stool. 

"Hi there pretty girl." Lars slumped forward, latching onto the stool for balance. He loomed over Nova, casting his shadow over her neck. "You still waiting for daddy?" 

One hand left the stool to strangle her neck by the headstock. He shook her as he lifted her up, straightening his back, wobbling in place. 

"Well guess what baby?" The other hand choked her neck by the pickups. "Daddy isn't coming home anymore." Tears pricked his eyes. "Daddy left us for good."

Lars lunged back and shut his eyes tight, throwing Nova over his head. Her heavy weight almost threw him off balance in his drunk state, but he held her there, fingers digging into her strings, holding her up. 

He held his next breath.

His arms trembled in the air, his grip slipping on Nova. 

Lars sobbed.

Nova collapsed onto the ground, bouncing on the carpet, landing a good few feet away from Lars, her neck and body still intact. 

Lars curled up into ball in the corner of the playroom, pressed his forehead into his knees and sobbed for hours.

"I can't let you rot here with me," Lars told Nova as he packed her into her case the next morning. "He can play you like I can't, like no one else can. You've got some years left in you. Make them count. Besides, one of us has to go back to him. And he's always liked you." His hands laid flat on the case's smooth top. "More than me."

He walked into HQ an hour later showered and dressed in new clothes. Awkward smiles and hellos greeted him, anxious to ask but afraid to provoke. Lars ignored them and headed up to his office, locking the door behind him. He rested Nova gently next his desk and threw himself into paperwork to kill the time. 

At noon Lars descended the stairs with Nova in hand. He heard James's familiar booming laugh from the kitchen. The sound sickened him. 

All movement stopped in the living room when they saw him enter. The cameras turned his way, followed his path as he walked forward. James met his eye, still smiling over a joke. 

"Hey, trying to take my gig or something?" James laughed, gesturing to the case in Lars's hand. "Maybe Kirk's?"

Lars smiled as he passed James for the kitchen table. He hoisted the case up onto the surface, everyone's eyes on him. James came to his side and Lars sensed his curiosity and confusion. 

He unlocked the case and stepped away from James, Nova and the table. "This is yours. I don't want it anymore."

Kirk, Bob, Phil, the crew and the cameras swarmed for the table, curious to see Nova. Lars said a silent goodbye to her as weaved through the crowd and quietly exited HQ. 

He kept his phone off as he drove south from San Rafael, the windows rolled down so he could hear the ocean roar and the rolling tires. At Pescadero, he pulled over, compelled by the natural beauty to stop and look. He walked out towards the edge of the ocean, the foam dancing around his soles. Waves crashed into eroded land, thousand-year-old teeth marks leftover by the Pacific. In the distance the fog raped the sea of its rich blue color, but not its power. 

Lars settled down in the wet sand and watched the ocean for hours, thinking of nothing. He left at sunset smiling, at peace. 

"What the fuck did you do to him? What the hell is up with that guitar, Lars? I mean, he cried! Over a fucking guitar! What's wrong with you—" 

Lars deleted Kirk's voicemail message. 

"Lars, it's Bob. We have to talk. James—" 

Delete. Next. 

"Hello Lars, Phil here. I think we should talk about James—"

Next. 

"Lars, it's James—"

Next.

"Lars, please, pick up—"

Next.

"Babe, don't shut me—"

Lars sighed and pulled the cell phone away from his ear. Twenty-six messages left and a full inbox of texts to read, probably all from James.

He erased all the messages before resting the phone in its holder for charging through the night.

Blue eyes puppy-dogged him for weeks, the whimper almost begging to slip between James's thin lips. Kirk's doe-like own studied Lars near and far, a feline curiosity mixed with deep concern. Bob left him alone in a way Phil couldn't. But Lars learned ways in how to ward off the Health Tornado without the cameras picking it up. 

On random days Lars dropped off big black Hefty bags to James's office filled with the broken leftovers he caused in his drunken rage that one night. He always left in time before James asked questions. 

Little by little the house emptied out, stripped away of anything James from the walls, the floors, the rooms, cupboards, closets and whatever Lars could find. The more he gave back, the more James looked like a kicked dog with its bent tail between its shaking legs, cowering away from any human contact. But he still searched out Lars like a fool and Lars kept vanishing before James could stop him. 

"Are you sure about this?" Torben asked a month later over his cellphone. 

Lars stared into the empty playroom, all of James's guitars now gone, off to wherever he was staying now. The only things left were James's stool and Nova's guitar stand. 

"Positive." He switched off the light and closed the door. "It's better if I leave the house too. I want to move on from everything." 

He arrived one morning to HQ with the real estate papers in one hand, a mocha frappuccino from Starbucks in the other. The agent handed him a wide variety of choices in the Sausalito area but the pressure of finishing an album and selling his old house consumed his attention for the past couple of days. With no one around the kitchen area, he could have a quiet morning overseeing his new home prospects.

Lars settled at the breakfast bar, spreading out the brochures and forms, organizing the houses numerically. As he read over the text for a water-cliff two-story, the faint traces of music reached his ear, ending his concentration. 

They came from the studio door behind him. He looked over his shoulder and slowly turned around, eyebrows knitted together. Curiosity pulled him out of his seat, but the music pied-pipered him to open the door. 

Inside the studio James, Kirk and Bob circled around his kit, playing a familiar tune that upset Lars's mind and stomach. Kirk kept a steady rhythm with Bob while James performed one of those solos Lars hadn't heard in so long, all emotional, all feeling. 

He gasped and stopped where he stood in front of the mixing board as his trembling eyes recognized Nova's beautiful chipped shine under the studio lights. 

"Hey, morning Lars."

Lars turned and noticed Mike Gillies there at the Pro Tools station, recording the guys inside. His lips moved, formed words, but his voice didn't cooperate.

Mike smiled. "James came in way early this morning before everyone else. He's been playing for hours now. Kirk and Bob came in an hour ago." He returned his attention to the computer screen. "You should join in, warm up a little."

He fished around his office for his studio clothes and slipped them on before stepping into the room. They seemed so into the song, James especially. Kirk and Bob steadied the tempo while James threw himself into the solo. 

Lars stood there in the corner of the room next to the door, unable to move forward. He stared at those fingers on Nova's neck, bending her strings, making her sing like he hadn't heard in so long. His heart ached, his chest tightened, his eyes stung as Nova cried, wept, sung through her noted tears while James tilted his neck back, gasping in such pain, such hurt. She was beautiful in those hands. They were beautiful together. James made her shine and she complimented him like no other guitar could. 

His eyes closed when James and Kirk harmonized solos. He loved their harmonies, like Heaven touching Earth in their echoed beauty. But Nova's distinct sound overpowered Kirk's, her voice profound and passionate, the singularity that caused Lars to smile and sway to the rhythm.

The song ended with Nova's long, loud crying last note. Lars's hand clutched at his chest, fingers digging into his shirt, twisting it. Had he heard James's vocals with Nova, he would've fallen apart. Even though he hadn't been affected by James's voice by months, he knew hearing it with Nova would've unraveled his resolve. 

"Well, look who's here!" Kirk's voice over the studio mic knocked Lars awake. "Morning Lars. You like the jam?"

Lars smiled. "Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat. "What did you play? It sounded familiar."

"Thin Lizzy," Bob answered. "James has been playing them a good while apparently."

Lars swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Oh? R-Really now?"

"Yeah, all morning." Bob placed his bass on its stand, smiling up at James. "You ready to stop, have some breakfast?"

James shook his head no, his back turned to Lars, hands still gripping Nova tight, holding her to his chest. 

Kirk patted James's shoulder. "Alright then bro. I'm making breakfast burritos so you're welcome to have some later."

James nodded from where he sat on his stool. Kirk and Bob gave Lars knowing looks as they passed by him for the door. 

Lars stood there, staring at James's wide back, neck bent, shoulders slumped, cradling Nova in his lap. He heard the faint plucks, sweet little notes like tears: one note, one drop, one after the other singing, crying. 

He wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. Each tentative step forward to James sent chills up and down Lars's spine. 

Mouth dry, chest heavy, eyes wet, Lars walked to him and stopped right behind him. He smelled James and it hurt. Nova cried louder as James plucked small notes.

Lars's hand detached from his shirt slowly and reached out for James's back. His curled fingertips shook as they stretched out to him. 

The tips pressed gently on the middle of James's back. Lars tentatively spread his hand out and rested his palm flat on that warm back.

James kept playing. Lars closed his eyes and sighed. 

"Every time I play her," James whispered, "she cries for you."

Lars's breathing faltered at the small crack in James's husky voice. He rounded the stool to stand in front of him and Nova. 

With both hands he cupped James's face and gently lifted it up to stare into the saddest blue eyes he'd ever seen in his life. Tears pooled at the edges, collected on his lashes, those eyes quivering as they gazed at him with such ache, hurt and need like he never saw from James before. 

He stared into those blue eyes, thumbs resting on the corners, Nova resting between the two of them. 

"Why did you leave me?" Lars whispered. "Why didn't you trust me anymore? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, I trust you, I love you, I do." James's hands flew up to Lars's forearms, holding him there in place. "I just... I blamed everything on you. I was an idiot. I left rehab and thought if I moved in with you again, I'd get back into the whole business shit instantly because I knew how you were always such a proponent in me playing and I wasn't ready for it. I needed control over my life and I didn't want you to take it away from me. But I shouldn't have done that to you. Fuck, I shouldn't have even thought that way about you, or act like I've had been doing to you, or left you in the dark like I did, not telling you anything. It's all my fault. It's my fault for not trusting you like I should've. I was so stupid for even thinking I didn't want to play music anymore. All I want to do is play music with you, for you, for me. I want to see you smiling at me like you used to when I played a song, when I sang something, even if it was fucking Mary Had A Little Lamb--" 

Lars hiccupped a laugh laced in a sob, rubbed his thumbs on James's skin as his James quirked a smile, those tears trickling down.

James squeezed his hands on Lars's forearms. "I'm sorry Lars. I never should've—"

"Shh…" Lars leaned in, closing his eyes. 

He descended his lips over James's, pressing lightly, Nova's body caught between the two of them. 

Lars woke up months later to the familiar harmonization of Nova's beautiful voice with James's. He groggily left the bedroom slipping on James's robe, shuffling over to the newly occupied playroom. 

The room needed more decorations outside of the instruments. It was too bare like the rest of the house. The kitchen would be done before the start of the first tour leg, but who knew when they'd finished the living room.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching James play Nova to the old Thin Lizzy tune he finally knew the name of: Still In Love With You. The song was a perfect match for Nova and James, two angels creating a beautiful Heaven on Earth in a small room, all for him.

James stopped playing, palm muting the strings. He looked up at Lars in the doorway and laughed. "Are you _ever_ going to stop wearing my robe?"

Lars chuckled and shook his head no. 

"Figures." He scooted over on the purple couch Kirk donated to them and waves Lars over. "C'mon babe. Spot's all open for you."

Lars settled next to James. He kissed his cheek. "I have something to confess."

"Oh?"

"Don't laugh, but I named your guitar a long time ago."

"Yeah? What was it?"

Lars rested a hand on Nova's body and smudged his fingers across her sunburst edge. "Nova. Because she's like a supernova. A burst of light sent out into space… until it reaches home."

James's hand fell on top of Lars's on Nova's body. He twined them together and raised them to his lips, kissing his fingers. "I love it."

Morning passed as Lars rested his head on James's meaty shoulder, an arm around his waist. Together Nova and James serenaded him, lulled him into a wonderful relaxed dream-like state, where he imagined them out in the vastness of space cradled in the light of a supernova, protected under a blanket of music and love, their story reaching out across the universe until they reached some planet millennia later, their bodies long gone, but their song living on forever.


End file.
